Subway Gods
by R.M1
Summary: Schuldich discovers something almost Eternal in the depths of New York City.


Inspired by Neil Gaiman's novel _American Gods. _I have no clue what exactly Schuldich is _doing_ in New York City--it just simply seems like a place he would be.

This is a bad place for gods.  
--Neil Gaiman _American Gods_

There is no such thing as something eternal  
–_Shojo Kakumei Utena _

****

Subway Gods

  
Schuldich hated the New York subway system. It was filthy, crowded. It was the home to all sorts of grime, to empty soda cans dotting the concrete like abandoned silver towers and smears of rust around posters crucified to the white washed walls like frames. But it was the people he hated. It was really a curse, to have to slink along empty alleyways and avoid Times Square. His work usually allowed him to work in alleyways, but the few times he was forced to venture into the more crowded areas…

Schuldich was constantly at war; he fought off the thoughts and bodies pounding steadily into the bloody flesh of his brain with arms and mental shields. After all this time it was pointless to try so desperately to claw away the oppressing heat that battered at his every sense, to fend off a migraines that slowly engulfed his own mind. _Why the hell am I doing this?_ He thought with a grumble, shoving a dollar fifty in change through a machine. A ticket stub popped out of the mechanism and he ripped it out with a grunt. _I should just *walk*. _But it was late--three AM if a passerby's watch had the correct time--and he was tired. 

"Excuse me," Schuldich pushed past an old man, his shoulder rubbing against the fellow's rough jacket. 

"I wouldn't be taking the Subway at such a late hour, son." The old man's voice had been a croak lost somewhere in his vocal cords, barely audible above the roar of a train passing below them. Schuldich turned on toe, hands jammed in the pockets of his olive blazer, and smiled at the elderly man. Tuffs of white hair stuck out at odd angles from the man's head, and large lines marred the flesh around plump lips that had begun to dull to ivory after too many kisses and movements. 

"If you're talking about getting mugged, I wouldn't worry," Schuldich said. He ran a hand quickly through his own locks, feeling out a few knots in the carmine and tugged them out with a swift flick of his wrist. "I'm pretty street smart." Schuldich did bother to mention the pistol hidden over his breast—didn't want to frighten the old dope, after all—but the gun's weight seemed to bear down on him when his mind wandered to its presence. _Can't be too careful,_ thought Schuldich. 

"Mugged?" the man chuckled. His hand moved to cover the laughter with a fist stitched together by more veins than skin, and a shudder scaled up Schuldich's spine when his gaze wandered to the dark blotches on the man's knuckles. Old age was more gruesome than all the carnage that had made its mark on this underground universe. "No, no," the man continued, "that's not what you have to worry about at this time of night. Don't bother with the muggers—you've got far worse in the tunnels." 

"Huh?" 

"Do you have the Faith?" 

"Not really." Schuldich shrugged. 

"Good. Because that particular god doesn't pay attention to what happens down here. You have to watch—watch for the shadows." There was the light stench of alcohol on the man's breath, and it tickled Schuldich's senses into awakening like a shot of adrenaline into his veins. _He's drunk._ Whatever hand of fear that had clenched over his heart recoiled to its place at the pit of his stomach and Schuldich patted the old man's shoulder. 

"Thanks for the advice," he said. "Have a night evening." He turned and began to walk towards the stairs, wincing every time an angry thought or jagged elbow would slam into him. It seemed most people were fleeing from the underground into the chilly night air, and when Schuldich reached the bottom of the stairs, the station was almost empty. A pair of young girls giggled to themselves in a corner, their plastic jewelry glowing iridescently in the half darkness, and a man leaned against a wall, rubbing at his temples. One of the girls looked his way and smiled shyly. 

__

He's cute, she thought. A faint blush had worked its way up into her cheeks. 

__

Thank you, he said into her mind. The girl branched away, and her eyes suddenly found the dull gray concrete interesting. He couldn't help but smile. 

A train—his train, he thought—came rumbling up to the side and came to a halt with a cry from the metal and stone it was braced on. Schuldich jogged up to it and slipped inside when the door creaked open. 

He found a place in the center of the train and glanced around; no one else seemed to be there. A crumpled bag of Lays chips lay beside his boot and a discarded copy of the New York Times was folded beside his elbow. He kicked the bag away from him as the train started to move and reached into one jacket pocket. "God, I hate this," he murmured out loud. Schuldich produced an amber container from the blazer and fumbled with the cap. The world was starting to blur around the edges, like the entire thing was running together into a great smear. At last the thing popped open and he greedily crammed a few of the white pills that were placed inside into his mouth. He barely noticed the way they burned a train down his throat. 

Darkness had settled in the empty car, occasionally illuminated by a flash of white. Schuldich leaned back, feeling his headache slowly die away into a dull ache. With a relieved sigh he grabbed a cigarette out of his pocket and flicked the lighter up and lit it. The pleasantly stale scent of smoke curled into his lungs in a noxious cloud and he exhaled with a moan. 

Watch for the Shadows, the old man's voice hissed in the depths of his mind. Watch watch watch… or else. Darkness enveloped the car for another minute as usual and then--

Then illusions began to suck and eat the space within the car and there was suddenly a man where they hadn't been anyone a moment before. The man crawled out of the shifting eclipses of light, twisting up to take form and breath. He rose up from the floor and the light flickered back into the cabin. Schuldich let his hand drop of his lap, leaving the cigarette protruding out of his mouth, dangling like a stick of bone. 

"Hello," the man said. It was simple, typical, and Schuldich had the urge to reply, although his conscious was urging him to merely tilt his head to face the window and ignore the creature. 

Instinct won over ration. "Hello," he replied. 

The man brushed a strand out hair behind his ear. His eyes were sanguine behind his ink dark bangs. Schuldich's lips quirked in a smile and he raised the cigarette to his lips once more. The smoke tasted stale and refreshing as it entered blackened lungs, normal in the mystic air that had begun to perfume the cabin. "So, what's your name?" he asked. The dark man's eyes closed in contemplation for a moment, skimming over his brain to find a sufficient title. They did not reopen when he spoke. 

"Hm. Many things. I suppose you may call me Christopher." 

"Christopher?" 

"Christopher," the man acknowledged. "Yes, that is my name. What is yours?" 

"Schuldich." He tapped the end of the cigarette on the plastic armrest. The ash that slipped off the end looked like a dying butterfly falling to the earth. He moved his foot out to stamp the cinder into the floor. Christopher smiled, head cocking oddly to one side like that of a marionette. 

"That can't be your real name. It's German. It means 'guilty' if I remember my verbs correctly," he said. "I haven't heard that language in half a century, so pardon me if I'm incoherent." The lids of his eyes snapped open like white shutters and their gaze began to bore into Schuldich's chest, a red-hot sword exploring his ribcage. When would those eyes find his soul and rip it like silk? 

"Well, I am German. Been that way my entire life," he replied. Christopher's Adam's apple bobbed when a chuckle filled his mouth. 

"How long have you been guilty?" 

"Oh, five years or so," Schuldich said off handily. His cigarette was nearly spent and he reached into his pocket to retrieve a wrinkled package, the gold foil lining the inside poking out of the lid. He extended the pack towards Christopher. "Want one? They're shitty American ones but they're better than anything." Christopher raised his hand in a declaration of refusal. 

"No, thank you," he said. His words were too prestige, as if he had fallen from a historical fiction bodice ripper into the back corner of some subway car. Schuldich reached into the carton and slipped a cigarette out of its coffin. "Suit yourself. I would think that Gods wouldn't really be worried about lung cancer of all things, but whatever," he said. 

"You know that?" Christopher questioned. His eyes bulged out of their sockets slightly. 

"I can read your mind." 

"Don't joke," Christopher put in, "and don't lie." 

"I'm not. I'm a telepath. Like right now, you're thinking about how much of a smart-ass I am. You're also thinking about how nice I look with my shirt unbuttoned a little." A blush worked its way up from Christopher's toes to flood his face with blood. In the fluorescent lighting the color was as obscenely bright as Schuldich's hair. 

"Yuh-you..." Christopher stumbled out, voice hanging in the air for a moment before dissipating into nothing more than a muted grumble. "I should have known. Your mind is absolutely filthy." It was the only sentence he could make out from the god's irascible mutters, but it made Schuldich smile none the less. 

"Really?" 

"It's unnaturally cluttered," Christopher's noise wrinkled up like a pug's and he shifted from one foot to the other. The gesture was nervous, unfit for a god of any sort. 

"You're not actually natural yourself," Schuldich commented. "A god…" he said the word as though it was a secret, hushed and only to be said after night had fallen over a forgotten city. And indeed the world he was now submerged in was a half lost from the memory of the city dwellers. 

"A dying god." Christopher looked to the floor for answers. The linoleum gave little response, save for when he moved his foot and it growled like a beast under the extra weight. 

"Gods can't die." 

"You would think that," Christopher said. "You would think We would live forever but… when we stop being believed in, we die. We disappear." His fiery eyes dimmed at this, extinguished by the invisible gust of hopelessness that flooded the containment the two were trapped inside. Schuldich paused a moment, barely breathing before brushing his mind against Christopher's own. 

__

What are you the god of? Darkness? The night? Everything unholy and hell worthy or are you an angel? The god's posture went ridged like a sapling, lips pursing for a moment.

__

I'm...I'm the god of these tunnels, he thought at the other man slowly. "I used to be worshipped. A few people still do, I think. Anything, anything at all that people crowd around and honor becomes a god after time."

"Anything?" Schuldich questioned. 

"Anything," Christopher repeated. "I think the most powerful of the gods is the Television at the moment." He laughed, but the tone he had used to proclaim the thing that had triumphed over him was not a humorous, Schuldich noted. It was yellow and burning; anger. But Christopher did not deal with anger well, and he wore the emotion like one would wear a scratchy coat. He longed to tug it off, discard of it… but nature would not allow it. So Christopher remained angry. "That's pretty interesting," Schuldich said. His new cigarette was nearly spent to the filter but he did not the desire to light another one. He would rather just talk. Bask in the light of a fallen creature whose only friend was him now, a telepath sitting in an ancient plastic seat. "What does it feel like?" he asked suddenly. The thought simply popped in his head, and Schuldich had never been the type to dismiss such an interesting question. 

Christopher blinks. "What?" 

"What does dying feel like?" Schuldich inquired. "You said you were dying. How do you know?" The query was morbid, like the teeth of a bat barred in the direction of the dark man 

((boy)) 

across from him. 

but 

But why not ask? 

"What it feels like?" Christopher did not retch in repulsion, not even in silent one; to him, the question was perfectly childlike, innocent in its nature and tones. "Like… falling." Falling. Like leaves. Like rain. Like Angels. "It feels like falling from a great height." 

"Doesn't sound unpleasant," Schuldich remarked, eyebrow arching up. "It's not." Christopher's smile had molded into something different, no longer bitter and tart like a thin lemon but full and sweet. A cotton candy grin. Schuldich felt his usually swollen tongue loosen. 

"I always thought dying was the worst it could get. Seems I have been proven wrong, though." 

"It's still there though. The fear of dying. It never goes away, even when we feel yourself turning to dust." 

Silence descended when the train shrieked and lurched forward. It had stopped. "My stop." Schuldich gestured out the window. "Guess I should go." He rose. 

"Of course." 

Silence, thick and awkward descended on the pair again. "Will you back?" Christopher asked, although he already knew the answer as it echoed throughout the train like a maddened bullet. Schuldich shrugged, rotating towards the door. In the smudged glass, he could see Christopher's lips tilt down. "Sure. Sure I'll come back.," Schuldich lied. No, he wouldn't be back, because he knew in the morning this would be a drunken fantasy his aching mind had concocted as he rode back to the center of town. 

Because all the gods are suppose to be dead already. 

"Bye." Christopher waved slowly, motions mechanical and smile nothing more than a reassuring plastic mold fit over his ivory lips. "It was nice meeting you, Schuldich," he added as an afterthought. 

"Good luck Christopher," he said. "You know…" a quiet laugh escaped his mouth and Christopher stared at the way Schuldich's hands raced up to his throat to suffocate the noise, "it's funny. We never told each other our real names." 

"I suppose we didn't." 

Schuldich stepped off the train and returned the wave just as the engines reamed into action, and the thing began to shift like a hulking animal back into the bowels of the underworld. He with a sigh, he trot towards the stairwell that would lead him out of a long forgotten kingdom. 

Schuldich never took the subway again. He was too afraid he would see 

((watch for the shadows)) 

dead gods scattered on the ground like burning, bloody leaves. It's no longer just a place for dead bottles and garbage. It's a real graveyard now. And with a faint sniff of the decaying air, Schuldich fled. 

__

--Rei Maria. Boulder, May 2002


End file.
